Of A Human Nature
by Iris Musicia
Summary: Voldemort finds his human nature in a most unlikely place: a Muggle girl with an indomitable spirit.  This is the emotional and mental journey of Voldemort and all the lives he touched.  Full summary and warnings inside.
1. Remorse

**Disclaimer: I suppose I must provide an obligatory no-ownership disclaimer . . . I don't own or profit from this literary work, all rights reserved to JK Rowling.**

**Full Summary: Voldemort finds his human nature in an unlikely place: a Muggle girl with an indomitable spirit. This is the emotional journey of Voldemort (hence the spiritual category) and the lives he touched during that time, and the people closest to him as their whole world is turned upside-down. It is as much a story of healing and the human spirit as it is a tragedy and an examination of the relationship of two people brought together by sad circumstance (hence the family category- no romance)**.

**Author's Note/Warnings: **** this is my first HP fic, so be easy on me. This fic will be a bit shocking and almost horror at parts, so I feel a duty to provide you with a warning: if you are sensitive to any of the topics listed here, DO NOT continue to read this story. If you continue to read this story and are disturbed by it, I can accept no responsibility for your actions after you have read this warning. The sensitive topics covered in this plot are: murder, kidnapping, physical, verbal, sexual, and child abuse, suicide, and spirituality (contemplation of religion, atheism, gods). Again, if any of these topics disturb/cause anger in you, DO NOT READ and hold me accountable for your bad decision if you are disturbed.**

**Thank you. Enjoy the story.**

**Iris Musicia**

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><p>The Dark Lord was out. He'd departed Malfoy Manor and headed for a nearby Muggle town, set on killing a few, just for fun. He chose a house at random and descended upon it, cloaked, and marched up the driveway. For a moment, a passing lorry lit up his face and revealed red snakelike eyes out for blood. <em>Alohamora<em> had worked perfectly unlocking the door, and he let himself in with the imperious air of a man with nothing to fear. There were three Muggles in the sitting room, watching their eklektrick contraption.

He swept into the room, cloak billowing. The father looked enraged. The mother looked scared. The daughter ran out of the room. _Avada Kedavra_ dispatched the mother and father satisfyingly, and he went after the little girl. She'd run upstairs and he could hear her crying to another person. So there were two more. The more the merrier, they say.

Walking into the room, the Dark Lord looked around for a moment, expecting to see two girls. He heard a sniffle, and saw motion. The little girl was crouched under the nightstand, staring at him with huge, tear-filled eyes. Where was the other girl? He raised his wand and drew a breath to speak the killing spell, but suddenly a person leaped onto his back. They nearly knocked him down, and the next thing he knew, there was a hand over his mouth and nose, and a Muggle girl screaming incoherent insults at him. Lazily, he aimed his wand at her over his shoulder and froze her, shrugging her frozen form off onto the floor.

He continued on his original path and killed the littler girl, then turned to the girl that had attacked him. "Do you know what people who attack the Dark Lord get?" he hissed. The girl was frozen with an angry look on her face, making her seem defiant. He drew a breath to shout, _"Crucio!"_ when something stopped him. It wasn't a physical force, it was his long-lost and barely existent conscience speaking up. It told him he shouldn't kill the girl.

For a few moments, the Dark Lord grappled with his conscience, then something amazing occurred. He finally felt _remorse_.

What happened that night nobody knows except for the Dark Lord himself and the only victim he ever spared, though in the Muggle police files there is record of a house fire killing the whole family.

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	2. Love

There was screaming coming from the basement of Malfoy Manor. This was not an uncommon occurrence, but it was _annoying_.

"My Lord, why did you spare her? The filthy Muggle only screeches like a banshee," Bellatrix asked one day, trying to block out the shrill screams that had continued for almost three days nonstop. "If you'd like, I could _take care_ of her?"

"Your bloodlust is admirable, Bella, but not today," the Dark Lord dismissed her with a wave of a hand. Bellatrix retreated a few steps. The room was quiet for a moment as the girl stopped screaming. Then she started again, but the screams were hoarse, quieter, less shrill.

"When she stops screaming, bring her to me." The Dark Lord instructed, then hissed at Nagini, who had been curling around his legs. She looked at him for a moment, unblinkingly, then unwound and slithered off to the basement door. The Dark Lord smiled, or what came close to a smile (really more of a baring-teeth-grimace), as he heard the Muggle girl's screams redouble. Doubtless this was agonizing for Nagini to _not_ eat her, but the snake would hopefully scare the girl into shutting up.

The past three days had been filled with various unsuccessful attempts to stop the girl from screaming, and much ponderance on the Dark Lord's side of _what possessed _him to keep this girl? If anyone less than the Dark Lord himself tried to go into the cellar, the girl would jump on their back and try to claw their eyes out with her fingernails. Mulciber lost his left eye in this manner, and Lucius Malfoy earned long ribbonlike scratches down his face, which his wife had _not_ been pleased with.

On a whim, the Dark Lord had sent Draco Malfoy to confront the girl, but he'd staggered back upstairs, voice shot up an octave and a half from a kick to the crotch. The Dark Lord had watched these proceedings with impassivity, recognizing the fighting spirit in the girl, justifying his sparing her by this spirit that refused to be broken.

The fourth day saw the end of the girl's screaming. Bellatrix, who had been moping by the windows, hands cemented over ears, pulled a hand cautiously off an ear. Her face lit up at the silence, now more odd than the screaming. Gleefully, she ran down into the cellar. There was the sound of a scuffle, but then a _bang_ and the sound of someone dragging dead weight up stairs.

Bellatrix emerged victorious, dragging the unconscious girl in front of the Dark Lord. He pointed his wand at her and woke her, and when she took a deep breath to scream, the only sound that came out was a pained wheezing. Bellatrix looked relieved.

"So . . . Muggle girl, do you know why I've brought you here? Of course you don't. You're my new experiment. I am the Dark Lord, but what is your name?" He asked, and Bellatrix hauled the girl upright so he could get a closer look at her. She had a round face, streaked with dried tears, and generic dirty-blond hair, a thin nose and mouth, and startling green eyes, so much like the Potter boy. He sneered at her and paced around her, continuing his examination of her. She was overall average.

"You have a good spirit. I might keep you alive a while longer, _if_ you speak." The Dark Lord said, fully aware that the girl had screamed herself hoarse and probably couldn't talk.

"Tell her what you'll do to her if she doesn't speak," Bellatrix crooned in the girl's ear.

"I'll _Crucio_ you . . . _Crucio_ causes unimaginable pain. Or, if I get bored, I'll give you to Bellatrix . . . she is very _skilled_ with a knife. Then I'll kill you . . . and feed you to _Nagini_," he hissed. A look of terror cemented itself on her average face, green eyes wide. At the Dark Lord's hiss, Nagini wound her way across the floor to her master, raising her head up and weaving around the height of his elbow. The look of terror on the girl's face broke briefly to show a flash of defiance and anger. The corners of the Dark Lord's mouth twitched in what came as close as possible for him to be a smirk.

It gave him satisfaction in scaring the girl, but not the usual whole-hearted feeling of satisfaction that filled him up for days. He scowled a little and turned, thinking of what he could do next.

"My name is . . . Imogen." A rusty, faint, hoarse voice spoke behind him. He turned quickly and saw the girl, Imogen, glaring defiantly at him. A smile of triumph appeared on his face, distorted by his disfigured features.

"So tell me, _Imogen_," the Dark Lord spoke softly, "how do you like Malfoy Manor?" His tone was teasing, baiting, superior.

"No, you tell _me_, snake-face Malfoy, how did you like my singing?" Imogen said roughly, as though each word was an effort. The Dark Lord was taken aback for a few moments and blinked incredulously. Had a captive of his just spoken back to him? Then he laughed. She thought he was a Malfoy!

"Why, thank you so much for the complement, my little Muggle, but I am the Dark Lord, not a Malfoy. That blond boy you sterilized yesterday is a Malfoy." The Dark Lord said. Bellatrix chuckled. Imogen kept a level gaze. "Hm." Quickly, the Dark Lord summoned Nagini and saw the anger flash across Imogen's face again. Bellatrix's grip on her shoulder tightened in anticipation. He instructed Nagini to chase the girl, _act_ like she was dinner, but no biting—he would have lots of fun with this one, but he couldn't have any fun if she was dead, now could he?

As Nagini wound towards Imogen and Bellatrix, Bellatrix released the Muggle and shoved her towards Nagini, making Imogen stumble. Nagini reared up and opened her mouth to hiss a warning for a strike. Imogen paled and recovered her balance, turning to run away, stumbling on uneven floorboards. Nagini slithered lazily after the girl, snapping at her heels and occasionally catching the heels of her sneakers and causing her to trip. The Dark Lord laughed; this was brilliant fun!

Imogen rounded a column and hid behind it, nervously glancing at Nagini as she slowed her pace to keep an eye on the girl, who was quickly looking around both sides, distracting the snake. The Dark Lord's eyes lit up and he perked up as Imogen jumped forwards at Nagini, causing her to recoil. The Muggle had decent reflexes as she avoided Nagini's strikes, finally managing to wrap a hand halfway around the snake's neck. Imogen put all her strength into holding Nagini's head down with two hands, putting her feet on the irate Nagini as well.

"What do you think of your snake now, Mr Dark Lord?" Imogen spat hoarsely at the Dark Lord. He barked a single laugh and slowly clapped twice.

"Impressive, Muggle. Bellatrix?" The Dark Lord said languidly, tilting his head at Imogen. Bellatrix rushed eagerly forward and put a knife blade to Imogen's neck, dragging her off Nagini and over to stand in front of the Dark Lord. Nagini hissed indignantly at the Muggle, spitting Parseltongue curses at her in passing as she went and curled up on the hearth rug, unblinking eyes fixed on Imogen.

"What should I do with you?" He mused, slight smirk on his lips, eyes bright as he circled slowly around Bellatrix and Imogen.

"Oh, let me kill her, my Lord," Bellatrix whined.

"Silence, Bella. Later." The Dark Lord said quickly, softly. He continued to pace, thinking out loud. "I could keep you alive and use you as entertainment . . . I could let Bellatrix have you . . . I could give you to my Death Eaters, if you're a particularly naughty girl," He said, lips curling in a semblance of a cruel smile as Imogen squirmed uncomfortably, movement restricted by the blade on her windpipe. "Or I could kill you myself . . . a high honor, I must say." His voice was a soft whisper as he stopped pacing in front of Imogen, looking intently into her face for signs of fear.

Her eyes were wide with confusion, anger, loneliness, sadness, and that desired emotion, fear. Her jaw was set—she was stubborn. However, she was fairly relaxed. Perhaps she thought this was a dream. "_Legilimens_," The Dark Lord hissed, plunging into Imogen's unprotected mind.

Memories wrapped around him, immersing him immediately in rich sensual information: the taste of watermelon in the summer, the feel of her sister's small, damp hand in her own, the smell of salty ocean water at Land's End, the bright, glittering colors of an American Broadway production, the sounds of innocent childlike laughter, the feelings of love and belonging holding her parents' hands . . .

And then the overwhelming tidal wave of dark, depressing emotions: loss, rage, grief, loneliness, longing, the deep musings of philosophy, life and death, suicide, torture . . .

Imogen had collapsed at the wizard and witch's feet when the Dark Lord withdrew from her mind. The play of memories and emotions was apparent on her face and she was reeling, drowning in a mental overload of painful thoughts, more difficult than any physical harm the Dark Lord could've inflicted upon her body. The Dark Lord kicked her in the stomach to elicit a reaction more amusing than this corpsing, tilting his head in curiosity as she rolled over, choking, eyes blank as she looked up. Suddenly, presence entered her eyes and they sought the Dark Lord's. "Why . . ." she breathed, "why . . . ?"

Voldemort felt an odd sensation rise within him—compassion, pity. Unable to meet the Muggle's gaze for any longer, he turned and walked over to gaze into the empty fireplace, visions and sensations of Imogen's memories haunting him. Carelessly, he waved a hand over his shoulder and heard Imogen protesting with screams, curses, and flailing as Bellatrix dragged her back down into the basement. The Muggle girl proceeded to bang on the door loudly until she bloodied her hands to the point of numbness, then reverted to screaming and ramming her shoulders against the door.

"She has fighting spirit, I cannot deny her that," the Dark Lord said absently as Bellatrix crept towards him.

"Is that why you keep her? Solely for amusement?" Bellatrix confirmed.

The Dark Lord paused before answering carefully. "Yes, Bella. Now leave. Leave me alone."

He heard Bellatrix scurrying from the room and the sound of the door shutting. With a spell directed at the door, he soundproofed it. Nagini lifted her head to look at the Dark Lord momentarily before the cease of screaming caused her attention to shift to the stairs leading down to the basement. The Dark Lord sighed and closed his eyes, sitting down in the armchair in front of the cold hearth.

"Why is it I keep this girl?" he mused aloud. "Surely she has spirit for a Muggle . . . and the eyes of Harry Potter . . . but why is it I feel . . . whole, Nagini? As if I were missing some part of me before, and this Muggle is the part I was missing? Perhaps I . . . that can't be possible. It can't be . . . but perhaps she made me feel remorse . . . she destroyed my Horcruxes, my immortality . . . rather than Harry Potter . . . yet I feel no desire to kill, no desire to torture, Nagini. What has happened to me?

"I am . . . human." The Dark Lord murmured softly, running a hand over his head as his eyes started to burn and water. Angrily blinking, he dragged said hand across his eyes to wipe the moisture away, glaring at it as if it was a personal affront to him. A headache started up and he cursed that, too, wondering if these mortal weaknesses were the results of remorse. He had a sudden urge to speak to Imogen again, to look into her memories again, feel the comfort she felt in her parents' arms, such an alien feeling to him, but not unpleasant.

With the musing of the feeling of comfort came another unbidden worm of thought: he had deprived Imogen of the feeling of comfort and security she craved, and as a result, made her unhappy and bitter. That didn't bother him as much as the fact that _he _craved the feeling as well, and not just the robbed emotions out of Imogen's head; he wanted the _real_ feeling, he wanted to embrace and be embraced in return, without a sense of duty or obligation to fear; he wanted the embrace to be of trust and friendship and love, such alien concepts to his mind, which was recognizing its deprivation now.

Silently, the Dark Lord cursed that part of his mind for having such traitorous thoughts, planting the seed of rebellion in his cold, calculating head. It was unnatural and his calculating mind loathed it, but his newly awoken mind adored it, his newly awoken mind adored Imogen and her innocence, her ability to love, it was jealous in the best of ways, filled with longing and want. His newly awoken mind was in love with love.

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	3. Tension

Imogen curled herself into a ball in the corner, adjusting her battered body into the most comfortable position for her hands and shoulders. Her throat was raw all over again, and in addition to that fire, inescapable aches and pains spread over her shoulders and back, lacing down her arms and spiking in her hands. Vaguely she wondered why she kept fighting if it was futile; the Dark Lord man had her hostage in a house—a big house, with only one other person, the Bella lady, as far as she knew. He could do any number of torturous things to her, but she noticed that his intents didn't seem sexual, thankfully. They were just sadistic. Either way, she knew she was going to suffer and die, a fate that is not easy to resign to, but easier to grasp with the knowledge that one's family is nonexistent and there was no time for final goodbyes.

She had no way to keep track of time in that horrid, pitch-black, mildewy basement, only the steady feeling of cold stones behind her back and the small, terrifying sounds of other living things in the darkness so completely around her. Imogen let herself be swallowed by the overwhelming emotions surging through her body, picking carefully and oh-so-painfully through them, one agonizing bit at a time. Tears rolled down her cheeks until her eyes ran dry with dehydration. Her ears, dulled by the oppressive silence of the basement, picked up on the sounds of someone coming down the steps and throwing the door open, the bright light shocking and paining her eyes.

"It reeks like piss," a rough male voice spat. The silhouetted figure in the doorway turned towards her corner and marched towards her, grabbing her arm and hauling her upright. Her body moaned in protest, but she didn't fight, for fear she'd pass out from the pain. Imogen was led upstairs by the rough man and deposited in the middle of the same magnificent hall she'd seen before. The Dark Lord man was there, with his back to her, facing the flames in the fireplace. A quick glance behind her, around the rough man, proved that it was nighttime outside.

"Very well, Nott, leave." The Dark Lord man said dismissively. A thought occurred to Imogen that would've slipped out her mouth if her throat hadn't been so dry, her tongue so carpet-like. The Dark Lord man really ought to treat his people better, or they'll mutiny, Imogen thought. When Nott had left, the Dark Lord man waved his wand at the door and turned to face Imogen. She fought the recoil and to contain her surprise and disgust. The Dark Lord man had been more snakelike last time, but now he was a horrific parody of a man: his cheeks were tinged with yellow, the lump of his nose looked like dried clay stuck on his face, and his eyes were a muddled dark purple, with unequal pupils the shape of American footballs.

"Imogen," he said. Once again, Imogen fought the recoil but was unsuccessful. Her skin crawled at the sound of the Dark Lord man's voice, which was a raspy, breaking hybrid between its high, clear, cold and removed qualities and a richer tenor that was still flat and high, but more human. "How nice to see you again."

Imogen remained silent, taking all her willpower to meet the Dark Lord man's eyes, though she desperately wanted to look away, at something easier and less horrific than his twisted face.

"You know, it is common courtesy to return a greeting," the Dark Lord man said, as if he were speaking to a slow child, though his voice broke on "common courtesy". "Greet me." He waved his wand in Imogen's direction, and her throat muscles started working of their own volition. It was the most alien, unpleasant experience Imogen had ever lived through, causing her to dry heave and retch, though she'd long since thrown up any food and failed to replace it. "Greet me." The Dark Lord man repeated, with a different flick of his wand. Imogen felt moisture seep into her throat and mouth. She swallowed several times, grimacing at the pain the action brought, but relishing the feeling of water in her mouth.

"I hate you," she choked out with difficulty.

"What a flat thing to say . . . as if I haven't heard that sentiment before. You'll have to be more creative if you want to get anywhere, Imogen." The Dark Lord man said, taunting and insulting and patronizing her all in the same sentence. Imogen felt her temper flare, but she didn't have the energy for sustained anger; it had been drained by the depression still swirling within her like a black hole.

"Why can't you look me in the eye?" she countered, grimacing at a swallow and recalling how the Dark Lord man had been unable to meet her eyes and answer her three-letter question the last time, what seemed like years ago.

The Dark Lord man hid his nanosecond of surprise well, though Imogen could tell he wasn't used to being surprised and didn't like the feeling. "Now what sort of a greeting is that? I believe you Muggles say good day, yes?" He smiled—another sickening sight, a friendly gesture perverted. Imogen also hated how he was patronizing Muggles—whoever they were, but racism didn't sit well with her.

"You can bloody well leave the Muggles alone, Mr Dark Lord." Imogen said defiantly. The Dark Lord man chuckled, causing Imogen to immediately rethink the brazen words that had just departed her lips.

"And why would I want to do such a thing, when you yourself are a Muggle, and I have no intentions of leaving you alone?" The Dark Lord man asked, stepping closer to Imogen. She stood her ground, though every female instinct in her body was screaming at her to _run, run, bloody run!_ This was a bad situation for a girl, most definitely. She squared her jaw and braced herself for any one of the nightmarish situations she'd planned for in the basement. However, the Dark Lord man merely laughed again and took a few steps away from her. Some of the tension drained from her body.

"You are definitely most amusing . . . tell me, Imogen, why do you fear me?" He tilted his head at her, betraying the calculating intelligence that lay behind that tainted face.

"Because you killed my family. Because you've ruined my life, and I know I'm not going to get out of here with my life and my virginity both intact. Because I know that you're a twisted person." Imogen said, willing her voice not to betray her fear.

"Your virginity? You honestly believe I would rape you? No, no, if I desired that, I would've had Nott do that. Oh, no . . . I prefer mind games, you see," the Dark Lord man hissed, taking another step towards Imogen and watching her with amusement as she swayed backwards, away from him, though her feet stayed obstinately rooted. "How old are you, girl?"

"My mother told me never to tell strange men things like that." Imogen recited.

"No? Well, you've already told me your name, and your mother is dead, girl. What is your age?" the Dark Lord man repeated, taking another threatening step towards her. Imogen felt her balance slipping as she attempted to lean farther away from him, yet not admit defeat by stepping backwards. To recover her balance, she took a step forward; an aggressive advance.

"I'm fifteen." She spat as she planted her feet again, in her new antagonistic position. The Dark Lord man didn't waver from his stance. Wizard and Muggle alike recognized how this was very much a posturing and conceptions game they played, two belligerent, dominant characters under each other's skin; a recipe for disaster. The Dark Lord man's eyes widened and face contorted in a parody of a smile as he increased the tension by taking another step forward, until he was two feet away from Imogen.

He could see that every fibre of her being was tense, poised to run, filled with fear and adrenaline. It was heady to see this kind of terror inspired in a human being, this primordial state of instinct aroused in such an evolved species. The Dark Lord controlled the situation. Stepping backwards would decrease the tension, while stepping forwards would wind her tighter until she snapped and backed down. She was his yo-yo, his intriguing, satisfying play toy that he could do with what he pleased, a toy matching his calibre for once.

Slowly and agonizingly, the Dark Lord took one step forward, until a gap of ten inches separated the two. The Dark Lord's superior height meant that he loomed over the Muggle girl, and he could feel the tension and fear and anger rolling off her body in waves. She kept his eye contact, but saw how her fists were shaking, nails digging into soft palms; this was physically difficult for her.

Lips curling in a smile, the Dark Lord placed his feet another four inches closer to the girl. She was leaning so far back, he believed she would fall over at any moment, but her feet must've been Permanently Stuck to the floor, for she didn't budge a hair. Oh, was she good. Teasingly, the Dark Lord turned his back and paced ten feet away before turning to meet her gaze again. He crossed the distance gradually, watching the tension build in Imogen's frame.

Finally, he reached the point of six inches of separation. Imogen was trembling with exhaustion and extreme exertion, the tendons on her neck stood out, her jaw was clenched, arms stiff, fists shaking, whole body stressed to the marrow. The Dark Lord closed the six inch gap. Imogen fell backwards, putting her hands out to stop her fall. There was a small crack and pain flashed across her sweat-shining face and she cradled her broken left hand in surprise. The Dark Lord looked impassively down on her as she bit her lip to keep from crying with the pain, noticing that her feet were still toe-to-toe with his own. She'd held up astonishingly well.

The Dark Lord tilted his head at her, a mild gesture not indicative of the degree of the turmoil inside his head: the new part of his mind wanted to help and comfort her, the old part of his mind didn't want to do anything but to leave her be and watch her pain and suffering, and maybe _Crucio_ her for good luck. Unfortunately for the Dark Lord, the new part of his mind was stronger and the fight was much more difficult. He crossed his arms behind his back and gripped just above his elbows to keep from showing the shaking hands that would give up the severity of his internal conflict.

Exerting a great deal of willpower, the Dark Lord turned away from Imogen and left her on the floor, hearing the soft sobs of anguish escaping her mouth. Lazily, uncaringly, haphazardly, almost, the Dark Lord aimed his wand over his shoulder and healed Imogen's wrist, though the languid quality of the unexpected action expertly masked the ferocity of the new part of his mind advocating healing Imogen. He heard a great racking sigh of relief issue from the Muggle behind him and felt the satisfaction of the new part of his mind mixing with the displeasure of the old part of his mind. Since when did he heal the injuries of his victims? It was like the lion trapping the gazelle and batting it around, then setting and fixing the gazelle's broken leg from the lion's advances. Unnatural. Against nature; against _his_ nature.

But that was Imogen's effect. She was the gazelle that could inexplicably receive a four-course banquet from any lion that trapped her. Nature demanded that such a gazelle be eliminated, but nature also demanded that such a gazelle survive. What would nature's final verdict on this gazelle be? Would the gazelle escape by the skin of its teeth to charm and luck its way out of encounters again, or would the lion's maw end its life?

The Dark Lord watched the snapping, dancing, flickering flames silhouetting his snake while his mind chewed on the idea, Imogen in the background pondering the same thought. They stayed silent and pensive for a long time, until the Dark Lord finally reached a verdict. He whirled on Imogen, screaming, _"Crucio!"_

Imogen's raw shrieks of unfiltered agony echoed hauntingly throughout the hall, reverberating and creating a tortured chorus; hell's symphony. The Dark Lord smiled as he stepped closer, jerking Imogen from side to side, keeping the Cruciatus Curse on her. It gave him immense pleasure to destroy her, to break that cool, collected outside, to shatter the body and mind of a person he'd come to view as his equal. There are no equals to the Dark Lord; he destroys them. Finally, the Dark Lord pulled the curse off the Muggle girl, leaving her panting and shaking and crying in relief and the aftershocks of the torture. She pulled herself into a sitting position and pitifully dragged herself into a corner to feel safer as she continued to weep. It infuriated the Dark Lord. How dare she display such weakness! It must be destroyed! No weakness.

"_Crucio!"_ Voldemort cried again, but the curse missed and hit the wall just beside Imogen's head, as she'd jerked to avoid it. Her eyes were wide with the realization of what she'd just avoided. She hauled herself into a standing position, knees knocking, bloodied hands clutching at the walls, eyes fixed on the Dark Lord, trying to anticipate his next move. His eyes lit up with the challenge she now presented, and he laughed as he shot the Cruciatus at her again. She moved slightly to the side and inched her way along the wall, relying on her hands to hold her up.

From across the room, the Dark Lord could feel the exhilarating sense of her fear—her racing heartbeat, audible to him, her wide eyes, her ragged panting breath, the squeal of her slick-with-blood hands sliding on the wall each time she repositioned them, the stumble of careless, tired, tortured feet on the polished hall floor of Malfoy Manor. He laughed maniacally, sending several rapid jets of spells towards her, a medley of the Cruciatus and Killing curses, with various unpleasant and immoral hexes mixed in.

Sobs and tears echoed now as Imogen realized what high stakes she was playing for, and what the price was if she failed to perform impeccably. The Dark Lord was having the time of his life wreaking the psychological torment upon Imogen, slashing spells up out of the air, cutting spells like broad swings of a blade, streaking spells like comets, jabbing and poking spells like the staccato rain on the roof. The Dark Lord finally stopped the onslaught, laughing, when Imogen collapsed, chest heaving, unconscious. He summoned Nott, pointing to the girl's body. "Do with her what you will, just be sure to return her to the cellar." He instructed rather dismissively, though the elation lent a jaunty note to this cracked, Frankenstein's-monster-esque voice. Nott looked delighted and collected the girl's body, carrying her haphazardly to the basement steps and stumbling down into the darkness.

Feeling more alive than he had in days, the Dark Lord walked to the window and looked out at the rain, glittering as it fell past the light streaming from the window. The world outside was abandoned to seek refuge from nature. The Dark Lord flicked his fingers and watched unblinkingly as the glass in the window shattered, glittering and flashing with the falling rain. He drew a deep breath of the cold, clean air, hissing in satisfaction. He felt Nagini winding around his feet, but stepped out of her embrace, streaking into the night sky.

Civilization and nature flew by beneath him, emptiness of the night sky above him, the air around him, in him, through him, whipping away all his thoughts and confusion and anger, scrubbing him clean of emotion except for joy. When he turned and twisted in midair, the land revolved around him, the sky twisting about him, reality centered on him, warping of his volition, as it should be.

He challenged nature when all else fled and hid from it, he flaunted his fearlessness in the face of nature. He recognized that if anyone were to treat him as he treated nature, he would kill them torturously for claiming superiority, and wondered if nature would do the same. Deciding that nature could not possibly do anything to harm him as he would harm an inferior man, the Dark Lord vanished into the darkness of the night, completely at home.

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	4. Violence

**Warning: this chapter contains references to rape, graphic violence and death. For those of you not mature enough, please press the "Pg Dn/End" button on the bottom-right hand corner of your keyboard.**

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For the second time, realistically, but it felt like the millionth time to her, Imogen found herself curled into a ball in the corner of the cellar, filled with fear and other dark emotions. She'd been violated. She felt filthy and wanted to crawl out of her own skin to escape the feeling, the flesh memory of what had happened to her. Her last recollection was the high-stakes dance she executed as the Dark Lord was firing spells at her, maniac look of glee on his face. Then, her latest recollection was that of a man violating her. Her body hurt, but her emotions were mortally wounded. She doubted she'd ever be the same as she pressed her legs tighter together, wrapping her arms around herself, rocking back and forth, head hitting the wall as she rocked back every time, steady as a metronome. The pain in her head was distracting from the pain in her waist, where the man had gripped hard enough to bruise, it was distracting from the pain in her legs, where the man had dug his nails into her flesh, it distracted from the pain in her crotch, where he had raped her.

Shakily, Imogen reached a hand up and felt the back of her head, where a lump was forming from hitting the wall so many times. She reached her hands out and felt around her in the stifling blackness, seeking her pants and trousers, tasting the salt from tears running into the corners of her lips. Imogen had to crawl on hands and knees until her fingers touched the familiar denim of her trousers. She struggled to pull them on with wildly shaking hands, fearing the man would return. The button was broken and she couldn't do the fly because the man had ripped her trousers off—literally. Imogen felt completely helpless and violated, powerless and without any form of safety or security.

"I want my mummy," she whispered miserably to the damp darkness, wracked with homesickness and loneliness and fear. She let all her grief flow into her tears, wailing through her strained, abused throat and into the unyielding room. Wretchedly, still howling, she crept into her corner and pressed herself against the wall as tightly as she could, trying to find solace in the cold, uncaring embrace of the stone. Footsteps came pounding down the stairs and slammed the door open.

"_Shut it!"_ the man—the same man who had raped her, Imogen realized—bellowed.

"Make me, you tosser!" Imogen shrieked back at him, realizing her mistake too late. "If you lay a finger on me I'll only scream louder! I scream so loud I'll break your eardrums and claw your eyes out!"

Nott realized that this was a valid threat, seeing as she had actually dispatched one of Mulciber's eyes, but he didn't care too much, as he could easily overpower her with magic. "I'd like to see you try, Muggle bitch."

Imogen knew something was terribly wrong at that moment—her body refused to feel fear, even though she should've been terrified. Maybe she was dying, her body was shutting down, resigning. Nott stomped over to Imogen and looked down on her, feeling anger rise up in him at such a pathetic excuse for a human. "Shut your face." He demanded.

"You'd have to kill me first." Imogen cried. Nott kicked her and saw that though the expression of pain appeared on her face, she failed to make a sound. He kicked her again, trying to elicit a vocal reaction. Again silence. Nott gripped her arm in a crushing hold and hauled her up, throwing her against the wall.

"You like cowering on the wall? Get the hell on the wall!" Nott shouted.

"Fuck you!" Imogen screamed in his face, mustering all her emotions and funneling them into rage, the adrenaline softening the pain from Nott's brutal strikes. He backhanded her and slammed her into the wall repeatedly, punching her in the face multiple times.

"Make a noise, whore!" Nott bellowed, slamming her into the wall so hard some of the plaster chipped off. Imogen was quiet in the semidarkness as Nott leaned over her, breathing heavily on her, her split lip, cut cheeks and jaw, bruised face and swollen eyes smarting like mad. Not to mention the pain wracking her back and chest; she was quite confident Nott had broken several ribs and caused internal bleeding, as each breath she sucked in greedily gurgled in her chest.

"Never," Imogen gasped, steeling herself for more pain. The pain never came, but emotional pain flared up as Nott ripped her shirt off, tearing it in half. He reached forward and grasped her bra, ripping the worn fabric off her chest. Imogen cowered and put her arms up across her chest to block any blows. Her body was tight, a survival instinct to prevent blows from reaching the internal organs. Nott pulled her trousers off and ripped them in half, so she couldn't put them back on. She hadn't put her pants back on, so now she was completely exposed and at the mercy of this cruel, barbaric man.

Whisking out his wand, Nott waved it at Imogen's arms and legs, magic pinning her spread-eagle against the wall. Tears redoubled as Imogen braced herself for another rape, unprepared for the pain, sharp, hot, and spearing, that lashed across her chest. Clearing her vision of the tears and gasping for breath through the pain, Imogen saw Nott slashing a design—words—into the air. She concentrated and read it backwards . . . there were two words, spelling "dirty whore". Pain and panic were clouding her mind, preventing her from realizing what Nott intended to do until the pain was blinding her, her own shrieks of mortal terror and agony ripping at her own ears, not even echoing tauntingly in that basement.

As the words were being carved into her skin, Imogen realized: every moment she fought, she survived for longer. If she surrendered to the pain, surrendered to the damage . . . she would die. She would be able to be with her family again. As she relaxed her body, she felt the cuts go deeper into her skin, baring her ribs in some places. It hurt so badly, but as she quieted her screams and let the pain wash over her, she felt it fade, the world receding immediately, as if she were looking down a long, dark tunnel and feeling a muted version of something happening to another person.

Vaguely, from down the tunnel, she heard Nott cursing at her not to die, but she was unconcerned. It was peaceful here, and even her muted senses were fading now, gone now . . . she was falling into the soft, welcoming embrace of death, easier than falling asleep . . . the relief was enormous as she embraced death back, relaxing and reclining into its arms, letting the last of her breath rattle out of her body, letting her heart beat its last few, feeble strokes . . .

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**In conclusion, Nott basically kills Imogen because she is defiant to him and shouts at him; Nott acts really barbaric and beats her before slashing the words "dirty whore" into her skin. Then she dies. Cliffie!**


	5. Void

Her whole chest lit up with fire as air was forced back into her lungs. It was unwelcome, it was unnatural. It was unwarranted and unneeded. She'd been relaxing into death, the great respite, and the first few moments of life again were that of a blaze of agony. Suddenly, every wound and beating Nott had inflicted on her throbbed, burned, ached, protested. Imogen wanted nothing more than to collapse back into death, but the insistent hands on her chest were pumping blood through her heart, air through her lungs, life through her broken frame.

Vaguely, she heard screams and pleading from far away, dulled by distance and substance. "You must live." A hurried female voice muttered in her ear.

_Why? Why do I want to live so that I can suffer again?_ Imogen thought, opening her eyes slowly and rolling her gaze to her left, feeling the ache and pain in even her eyeballs. She saw the clothed abdomen of a woman bending over her, dressed in black linen and satin. Lazily, slowly, painfully, she examined her surroundings with limited senses. Imogen was lying on the hard, uneven wooden floor of the house, though not in the hall, which she recognized. The room looked like a scaled-down version of the hall, but Imogen didn't care. She lied on the floor, unresponsive, uncooperative, unlifelike. Only her slow, painful blinking and sluggish reflexive rise and fall of her chest indicated there was life in her.

_Let me die,_ Imogen thought desperately, surprised when her voice echoed the same sentiment raspily and weakly.

"No, no, you can't die. The Dark Lord needs you alive, and you must not disobey the Dark Lord," the woman whispered fervently. Imogen saw that she had white-blond hair and a strained, pinched face as she sat back and looked at the door, eyes widening at a sound Imogen couldn't hear. "He approaches!"

The door burst open, and the Dark Lord stood there, looking vengeful. "I heard that Nott beat our Muggle to death, nearly. I trust you made her live, Narcissa?" He asked. Imogen's sluggish mind recognized that he looked even worse than the last time she'd seen him, a few sparse, coarse hairs sprouting from his paper-white scalp, the yellowish tinge spread across his nose, which was more prominent now, the nostrils stretched and distorted slits trailing down to just above his lip, his eyes were milky now. Saying the Dark Lord was monstrously horrific was an understatement.

"My lord . . . there is an issue," Narcissa said fearfully, looking down at the floor.

"What issue?" the Dark Lord hissed, though his voice sounded as if he were standing behind a mattress: muted, though the "s" of the hiss penetrated the mattress and spiked at Imogen's ears.

"She—she has n-no . . . no . . ." Narcissa stuttered, tensing her body, expecting pain, ". . . n-no sp-sp-irit . . . or w-w-will t-to l-live . . . ?"

The Dark Lord hissed in anger, showing now-uneven, crooked teeth. With a flick of his wand too fast for Imogen's eye to follow, Narcissa was screeching and writhing on the floor, unintelligible pleas falling upon deaf ears, willing for the torture to stop.

"Make her want to live and give her _your_ spirit." The Dark Lord spat in his muted voice as he released Narcissa and swept out of the room. Imogen's eyes fixed themselves on Narcissa, who was sobbing softly. She took a few minutes to compose herself before turning her attention to the Muggle and taking out her wand, hands not shaking with experience.

"_Episkey_," she said repeatedly, healing the more minor injuries to Imogen, who welcomed the absence of pain. Narcissa looked concerned at the deep slashes and cuts across Imogen's chest, reading "dirty whore". She remained impassive as she did her best to close the cuts, but the shining pink scars marring her smooth, pale skin could not be banished.

"You need to want to live, girl," Narcissa said, eyes meeting Imogen's. Her voice had taken on the quiet authority of the lady of the house. "If you don't want to live, you can die, but you will die far more horrifically than what Nott did to you, and you'll be the deaths of my family and many others."

Imogen blinked slowly, not comprehending. Narcissa looked around before whispering, "_Ennervate_." Imogen felt more aware suddenly, but her throat still hurt. "So, girl, are you going to live? Will you spare me? Spare my husband and son?"

_Why should I? I had my family and my life taken from me,_ Imogen thought. She did her best to repeat it scratchily. "I deserve . . . to die," Imogen spoke slowly, breathing labored. She let her head fall back and eyes loll closed, a sense of peace and relaxation coming over her, one of lethargy that beckoned to her, enticing her with rest and relief and never again a spark of pain. Shaken out of her fatal slumber, Imogen couldn't rouse any emotion, much less anger, to look at Narcissa as she covered the Muggle with a sheet for modesty, tucking it under her body to swaddle her.

_I have no reason to live . . . yet they want me to live. Why should I live? I deserve to die; I've been through things nobody should ever have to go through. I need to just never be bothered again . . . find my family, tell them I'm okay. My family . . . Lucy . . . better me than her, they'd kill her in so horrible a way . . . she wouldn't deserve that. At least they went quickly and easily._ Thoughts swirled around Imogen's head, sad, heavy thoughts that should've roused grief and loss in her, but they failed to cause her to feel any emotion. She noted that and tucked it away in her mind for later thoughts. As Narcissa stood and walked out of the room, casting a watchful glance over her shoulder at Imogen, the Muggle's thoughts turned to the future.

_What's going to happen to me? Maybe they'll keep me alive just so they can routinely torture me . . . Nott and the Dark Lord both view me as a play toy, doubtless . . . _ Again, these thoughts should've inspired terror or anger, but Imogen felt no emotions. She was completely objective, sterile, blank. That thought should've scared her, as it was unnatural, but she wasn't even curious to know why . . . she felt no sense of fear, elation, anger, curiosity, depression, nothing. Narcissa had said something to the Dark Lord, something about Imogen lacking a spirit. She had plenty of spirit, her father used to routinely describe her as spirited or spritely; there was no question about it. However, if she had no spirit now, for whatever reason, why was that?

Languidly, slowly and methodically, Imogen picked her way through her thoughts, eventually arriving at the conclusion that she had no spirit because her spirit had died, but her body and mind had been revived without it. This conclusion took her many an hour of deep thought, around three days. Narcissa would come to check on her every hour, even at night, to make sure she hadn't wasted away or committed suicide. However, it seemed Narcissa's fears were unfounded; the girl just lied there, perfectly still, eyes blank and half-closed, blinking only occasionally. It was unnatural, and spooked the Malfoy, but her memory stirred up the Dark Lord's words every time her eyes were met with the sight of the Muggle's still, supine form.

Narcissa wracked her brains for a way to give the girl a spirit again without sacrificing her own, and if that was even possible. There seemed no way to rouse her from her position on the floor, except to roll her over into a prone position to clean up her wastes three times a day and night. If the girl slept, Narcissa never saw it. She was a ghost, a shadow of a human, and a sliver of the person she'd once been, so spitfire she defied the Dark Lord, now turned into a slow-moving echo of herself.

Even in the expansive and information-rich library at the Manor, Narcissa could find no answers, and it was fraying her nerves, living in fear that Imogen would pass on and condemn herself and her family to death. The Dark Lord was still a monster to behold, virtually the same as the last time he'd visited Imogen, and he was more aggressive and cruel than usual. Everyone in the Manor was feeling the effects of all the tension from each other; it was only a matter of time before one snapped and set the Dark Lord off. They were all lit matches held delicately over a pile of tinder by a wish and a prayer, just waiting for one to burn through and set the nest on fire.

Narcissa was frequenting the library for what seemed like the hundredth time in the two weeks that had passed since the Dark Lord set her task when she ran into one of the house-elves. "You!" She called at it. It jumped, squealing, then miserably trudged back to her.

"Yes, ma'am?" It squeaked, looking down at its feet.

"Find me a way to save the girl's spirit." Narcissa commanded, and the house-elf nodded, Disapparating with a loud crack. Even with the elf on the job, Narcissa continued to search through the library, once again turning up empty-handed.

Within an hour, it was time to check on the Muggle, Imogen. She was blank and silent as usual, and once again, Narcissa was reminded of a victim of the Kiss; just as lethargic and quiet and freakish.

A week passed in this tense, fear-riddled state, Imogen still unresponsive, though the flesh was starting to melt from her frame as her muscles atrophied. One night, Narcissa was going back to her room from speaking with the Dark Lord, and the house-elf she'd set to do her task Apparated right in front of her. "Miss Cissy!" It squeaked. "Blinky has found a cure for Miss Cissy!"

"What? What is it?" Narcissa asked, eyes bright.

"Blinky had to look for a very long time, and Blinky has finally found the cure in the Muggle world! Muggles treat broken Muggles putting them on horses. The broken Muggles become whole again!" Blinky explained excitedly.

"Get me more information. Get me a book about it." Narcissa demanded, walking off. She heard Blinky sigh heavily and Disapparate and wished the elf would return quickly so that the Dark Lord, who was very testy as of lately, wouldn't decide that _now_ was an opportune time to commit genocide against Malfoys.

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